The House of Shattered Wings

by Aliette de Bodard

  But, if it was him, if he had somehow been resurrected by some mystery she could not comprehend—then why did he not remember her? Was it something Asmodeus had done? Surely he had to know that the “young” Fallen he had rescued was one of the loyalists who’d opposed his coup twenty years ago?

  Surely—

  Lost as she was in her thoughts, it was a while before she realized that, in the place where she’d left the others, there was no trace of them whatsoever.

  At first, she wasn’t unduly worried; they were adults, and the market was as safe a place as there could be in Paris. She looked for them, desultorily, amid the brightly colored stalls, sure that she would meet them at the House if she couldn’t find them.

  A scream—terror and agony, rising through her mind—no, not hers, someone bound to House Silverspires was in mortal danger.

  She ran, but she knew even before she started to run that she would be too late.

  FIVE

  THE HOUSE OF HAWTHORN

  PHILIPPE had used Madeleine’s departure to slip away from the group, mumbling something about looking at primed lacquered boxes. Oris had made a face, but Isabelle also expressed a desire to do some shopping of her own. So they split up, each going in a separate direction—after all, what could happen to them in the middle of the busy crowd, in a place where the old alliances still held?

  It was after midday, and the crowds of the market were thinning away, leaving Philippe free to leisurely walk to his destination.

  On the edge of the market, he ducked into the Old Wing, the barely used buildings that had once been the Police Préfecture and the Commerce Tribunal. There was a side street there, which widened into a makeshift courtyard between the two derelict buildings.

  There was a man there, waiting for him, sitting under the wide arch of the entrance to the Préfecture.

  Philippe recognized him as one of House Hawthorn’s members, still wearing the gray-and-silver uniform with the ease of a soldier; and the eyes, too, were those of a soldier, wide and blue and naive, until one truly looked into them, and saw the darkness lurking within.

  “Ah, Aragon’s little friend,” the man said. He rose, impossibly lithe, scarecrow thin, dancing to music only he could hear: he was Fallen, though his face was as round and as smooth as a baby’s, without any of the edge Philippe would expect from a former angel. But the eyes . . . the eyes gave him away. “My name is Samariel.”

  “Philippe.” He felt awkward, gangly, out of place—even though he was quite probably older than Samariel. Arrogant bastard, like the rest of them.

  “‘Lover of Horses,’” Samariel said, gravely. “Was that the name Lady Selene gave you?”

  Philippe flushed. “That is the name I gave myself. I owe nothing to Selene.” Nothing except the chains she’d wrapped around him.

  “I see.” Samariel’s gaze was mocking. “Aragon tells me you need help. I assume he also told you—”

  “That it would come at a price? I’m no fool.”

  Samariel looked him up and down, as if weighing his options. “No,” he said. “Perhaps you’re not.”

  “What makes you think you can remove Selene’s spell?”

  Samariel smiled. “May I?” He reached out, and stroked Philippe’s neck—a careless gesture that made Philippe shiver. His skin was cold to the touch, as cold as the high reaches of Heaven; but soon it grew warmer. Philippe saw the tangle of threads around his neck, plunging deep into the earth—linking him to the House, Aragon had said, shaking his head. Samariel reached out, thoughtfully plucking two of the brightest strands and raising them to his eyes. He pursed his lips and spread out his fingers like a conjurer doing his best trick; and, just like that, the threads were gone.

  Illusion. It had to be. The casualness with which Samariel had acted, the frightful ease with which he’d undone a spell that had had Philippe stumped for weeks, that Aragon had said only Selene could raise . . .

  “You can’t—” Philippe started, but when he shifted he felt it; the slight yield in the bonds that tied him to Silverspires; the lessening of the weight around his neck; and it wasn’t an illusion.

  “A nasty piece of work,” Samariel said. His face was still impassive; his hand still casually rested on Philippe’s neck, once more as cold as carved marble. He made no move to withdraw. “Untangling the entire thing, of course, would be another matter. Each thread is harder to smooth out than the previous ones.” He smiled—this close, Philippe could see the sharp, white teeth under the lips as red as blood, the smile of a predator in the instant before it struck. “I don’t know what you did to Lady Selene, but she must value you very highly.”

  Philippe had no desire to go there. Samariel was no fool; and if told about his little tricks in the Grands Magasins, he would no doubt wish to take Philippe for Hawthorn, just as Selene had taken him for Silverspires. “I did something foolish,” he said.

  “Indeed?”

  “I tasted a Fallen’s blood.” He gambled that Selene’s aversion to hurting Fallen would be a known thing; and that it was close enough to the truth to satisfy Samariel.

  At length, Samariel nodded. “I see.” He withdrew his hand; but remained standing close, uncomfortably so. “You should have known better, but never mind.”

  Philippe bristled, controlled the angry retort that came to him with an effort. “You said you could take it away, for a price. What’s the price?”

  “Tsk. Manners.” Samariel shook his head. “A few years in Silverspires would have corrected that, at least.” He smiled, waiting for Philippe to rise to the bait. Philippe said nothing, and thought back to the almost alien serenity that had once been his, as an Immortal—to the misty landscape of mountains stretching into infinity until the entire world seemed to blur away and dissolve; the boats scattered on the expanse of the river at dawn, and the hypnotic songs of the fishermen as they cast their nets into the liquid mirror of Heaven.

  “Your price,” Philippe said, again, shaping his lips into the smile that Ninon called “inscrutable.”

  Samariel’s eyes drifted toward the clouds in the skies. “My price. Tempting as it is to charge nothing—I imagine it would be quite a setback for Selene to lose you—I still should not undervalue my time. We both agree on this, don’t we?” He didn’t wait for Philippe’s answer, but went on. “You know that House Hawthorn and House Silverspires are . . . at odds.”

  “To say the least.” Philippe didn’t care much, one way or another. Let them destroy each other, and they’d have got nothing but their just deserts.

  “At the moment, Silverspires is . . . strong.” Samariel made a grimace. “Morningstar’s legacy is not to be trifled with.”

  “So?” Philippe shook his head. “I have no hold over it.”

  “That would be where you are wrong, my little friend,” Samariel said. “The greatest cracks in a building come from within—that’s what I want from you. A way for Hawthorn to gain the ascendant.”

  “I don’t play House politics,” Philippe said. “And how would I know what you’re looking for?”

  “A weakness.” The sky had gone dark, and the few birds had fled. In the dim light, Samariel’s teeth shone as white as bleached bones. “A hold on Silverspires. Bring me that, and Asmodeus will do the rest.”

  Weaknesses. Aragon had feared the price Samariel would ask for. He had known, or had suspected. “You want to destroy the House.”

  “Don’t be a fool.” Samariel shook his head. “It’s not the war anymore; just a game that we play among ourselves. Yes, we’ll bloody Selene’s nose, and humiliate her. Neither I nor Asmodeus have the least interest in destroying anything or anyone.”

  A game. In a way, it would have felt cleaner, if Samariel had outright asked for destruction; but then, what had Philippe expected, from a House-bound? They were all the same; replete with the casual arrogance that had brought over Annamit
es and other colonials to fight their senseless war; the ones who had risen to power on rivers of blood; on deaths and suffering and the wreck of lives such as his.

  He should have walked away. He’d meddled enough with Fallen, and it had cost him enough—he should have shaken his head and gone back to Silverspires, to his unbreakable captivity, to a future that he could no longer envision.

  But there was a darkness, at the heart of the House, a curse within him, and that was Morningstar’s legacy, not the House Selene was so proud of that she’d sacrifice anything, imprison anyone for it. It was nebulous and unclear; and not something he could give Samariel, not yet; but it was a start, all the same.

  “A weakness. And when I bring you this, you’ll lift Selene’s spell?”

  Samariel pursed his lips. “You don’t trust me? Perhaps you’re right. You should trust no one. But I’ll swear it on the City, if that makes you feel better. Bring me a weakness of House Silverspires, and a way to exploit it; and I’ll lift the spell that keeps you here.”

  On the City. “That’s binding,” Philippe said.

  “Close enough. Will you do it, then?”

  It was no light request; it was a risky one—it could be more damaging, more far-reaching than he thought, burning like embers kindled back to life. But . . . but, if he did this, he would be free. He would walk away from the House, from Selene and all her power games, and the uncertain future when she owned him and his powers; when he was, once more, pressed into servitude as a weapon.

  Free.

  He could—no, demons take Isabelle—for a moment he’d had this mad dream she’d given him, that he could, somehow, go back to Annam, make a life for himself again, away from the pomp and decorum of the Jade Emperor’s court—again, that warm feeling in his belly, the beginnings of a hope he’d started to cling to but shouldn’t afford; of a dream he should lose faith in.

  Samariel lifted his head again, to stare at the sky—his nostrils flared, though not a muscle of his face moved. Something. He’d smelled something?

  Philippe looked up. The air was tight, as heavy as before a storm; the few birds overhead moved sluggishly, dwarfed by the dark clouds that covered the horizon.

  Something was wrong. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

  “That’s a bargain, then,” Samariel said. “Until we meet again.” He bowed, as dapper and as lithe as ever, and withdrew, but not before Philippe had caught a glimpse of his hands—and the slight tightening of his fingers that marked wariness, or anger, or both.

  He was alone in the courtyard, staring at the storm clouds gathering in the sky; and there was a pounding against his head, a slow dimming of the light as if something large and winged had flown across the sun; but the sun was already hidden, so it couldn’t be that.

  With difficulty, he tore himself from the contemplation of the sky—and saw Isabelle, who stood at the entrance of the courtyard, a half smile on her lips.

  “You—” How much had she seen? “Why are you here?”

  “Because I felt what you were doing. Through the link.”

  She smiled, her face smooth and innocent, and as deceptive as Samariel’s. “You could have trusted me. We had a bargain.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” The pounding was getting worse; that feeling of standing at the edge of an abyss.

  “Liar,” Isabelle said. “I saw him leave. I caught some of what you were thinking.”

  The link again—why was it much stronger in her—why could she read his mind sometimes, while he could only feel her in moments of calm and silence; or when they were physically close to each other?

  “It’s no business of yours,” Philippe forced through clenched lips. “And nothing that need concern you.” She was part of the House; but how loyal was she? How much would she report to Selene?

  She was there at the back of his mind; angry, scared for the House—and scared for him.

  He’d have been afraid, too; if he didn’t feel so sick.

  “Philippe? Is something wrong?”

  But he wasn’t with her anymore; he stood in the courtyard, and the buildings around him had the warm golden color of limestone. The courtyard was packed with people: with the old-fashioned clothing he’d seen pictures of in Indochinese schools—the top hats, the swallowtails, the voluminous dresses and corsets.

  He knew, even without turning around, that Morningstar would be by his side. The other’s presence had an intensity that seemed to distort the very air around him. He wore a top hat, too; and the wings were folded; though he still had the sword, which he leant on as if it were a gentleman’s cane.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it? We stand at the pinnacle.” He smiled; and Philippe’s entire being was suffused with warmth. “This,” Morningstar said, pointing to the crowds and the buildings and the blue sky above, “this will last forever.”

  No, it won’t, Philippe tried to say, but the words were stuck against his palate. You have a few decades, at the most, and then comes the war; and then comes the decline; and then you vanish, you become nothing, a figure in the history books. You become . . . lost.

  And the darkness was within the blue sky, too—the flocks of white seagulls would soon drop dead from exhaustion, the storm clouds were gathering; the House itself was built on cracked foundations, on secrets and guilt and buried pain; the mirror was below the throne in the cathedral, and one day it would release its nightmares into the streets. . . .

  “Philippe!”

  Isabelle was shaking him. “What is wrong with you?”

  Ash and blood on his lips: a memory of her blood, except it was dry and tasteless, and instead of giving him power it had drained him of all his strength. “I—” He struggled to breathe through parched lips. “We have to go.”

  Isabelle did not question him as to why. “Where?” She pulled him upright with surprising strength in a body so slight. “Show me where.”

  Philippe closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, the world was still whirling around him, and the darkness was still rising from within him—as if he were the mirror, cracking from end to end. But it wasn’t a pall over everything—rather, it was intensely focused, as sharp and as heavy as a thrown spear.

  “This way,” he said.

  * * *

  AFTER Isabelle and Philippe had left to go shopping, Oris headed back, slowly, to Pont-au-Double. Isabelle and Philippe would be fine: it was a market, and the worst that could happen to them was getting fleeced by traders, or pickpocketed by children. Oris, meanwhile, wanted to catch Madeleine at Pont-au-Double when she was done with whatever mysterious errand had brought her back into the arms of House Hawthorn—he didn’t know, not exactly, what the circumstances of her leaving had been, but he’d caught enough glimpses of her face darkening whenever Hawthorn was mentioned—and, of course, of the scars on her ribs and hip, which told their own story.

  People dismissed Oris as a wallflower, but it wasn’t because he never spoke up that he didn’t see things. He’d seen, for instance, the light in Madeleine’s eyes at night, which made them seem almost insectile; the way her long, graying hair had grown dull and lusterless, her round, pleasant face sharp and hollow. He had heard her cough; listened to the way her voice had grown subtly hoarser over the past few months. Aragon should have seen it, if he wasn’t too busy with too many patients—Oris wasn’t Aragon, but he could still make his own predictions. She had a year, perhaps; a little less, a little more.

  And the thought of that was a cold, cold emptiness in the pit of his stomach, more disturbing than the thought of his own end or the end of the House. He shouldn’t have cared so much; but she cared, too. She tried to do her best by him, even though he couldn’t rise to her expectations.

  He’d prayed, of course; but her face had continued to subtly grow thinner, her skin sallower; and the bouts of coughing came stronger and more often. Perhaps
God didn’t acknowledge the prayers of Fallen; having cast them from His presence, perhaps He’d forgotten all about them. Perhaps the more extreme priests were right, and redemption was a gift reserved for humans. He didn’t know. He’d continued to go to Father Javier’s masses, because he couldn’t bring himself to believe in that kind of angry, hate-filled God—because his faith was all he had left, and he clung to it as if to a raft in a stormy sea.

  He was halfway back to Pont-au-Double when the light dimmed. Puzzled, he looked up, but the sky was the same light gray overcast as it had been a moment ago. Surely . . .

  And then, on one of the stalls in front of him—which sold boxes and large, flat mirrors for imprisoning Fallen breath—he saw a flash of the darkness, of something huge and winged crossing the glass for a heartbeat.

  No.

  That first time, that horrible night of turning left and right and seeing it—always barely out of reach, always oozing in some corner of his field of vision—that had been an illusion. Madeleine had found nothing in the House; and nothing more had happened. It was . . .

  Across the polished surface of the largest lacquered box, the darkness passed again, and this time there was no mistaking it.

  No one else seemed to have seen it. The crowd was slowly dispersing, except for a few hangers-on haggling for a bargain as the market came to a close and merchants had to unload their stock. They met his eyes with idle curiosity, and then turned back to what they were doing.

  Oris turned, but there was nothing behind him. But, as he turned back, there was a flash of movement; something barely perceptible against the colored background.

  There.

  He ran.

  He made for the safety of the House, his heart hammering against his chest—and, in every stall that he passed, the darkness flashed, and lingered for a moment, spreading huge black wings; and he could hear a persistent hiss—he’d thought it was some kind of gas spreading, but after a while he realized it was the hiss of dozens of snakes, which he couldn’t see anywhere.